Cheryl Holt (18 page)

“I should grit my teeth and forge ahead even though Caroline and I would both be miserable?”

“Certainly.” Although it was a mystery how any man could anticipate that copulating with Caroline would be a chore. If she’d stoop low enough to look in his direction, he’d jump at the chance to have her, but it would never happen. She was such a snob that she pretended he was invisible. “Then you wouldn’t have to fuss over your choice. Caroline’s family would cease their pestering, you could go about your business free and unencumbered. You’d have it all. It’s that have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too nonsense.”

“That would be a hell of a way to commence, don’t you think? Marrying somebody I never wanted, merely to get it over with?”

Ian discreetly evaluated him. Was John a romantic deep down? Was he searching for fondness and devotion in a bride? If so, he wouldn’t find them in that river of vipers that occupied the marriage market in which their father’s demise had forced him to swim.

“You hope to marry for love?” Ian prodded cautiously. “Is that your plan?”

“No,” John scoffed. “I’d just hate to land myself in the type of relationship my parents had. Father had a paramour lurking behind every door, and my mother was heartbroken because of it.”

“Really?” Ian had never heard John mention as much, wasn’t aware that John harbored this observation about his parents.

“In many ways, your mother was lucky that Father didn’t stick around.”

“Perhaps.” Ian hadn’t contemplated the possibility. What would it have been like if Douglas had stayed on? It was a fascinating puzzle to ponder.

“I want to be happy.” John was more testy than the discourse warranted. All that sobriety was wearing on him. “Is that too much to ask?”

“No. But your craving of contentment can’t preclude your marrying and siring an heir.”

“What time is it?” John impulsively posed, completely changing the subject.

“Ten minutes after one. Why?”

“I believe I’ll take a walk outside.”

“A walk?” Ian echoed, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Just grand.” On observing Ian’s skepticism, he added, “Can’t a bloke take a bloody stroll in the fresh air without the whole world commenting?”

“So who’s commenting? Go! I don’t care what you do.”

John stomped out, as Ian watched, curious as to whether they were fighting and why.

He strained to discern the footsteps that would ensure John had departed then, on stealthy feet, he sneaked to the door and locked it. He waited, holding his breath, then he went to the desk, and centered himself in the large chair.

Removing a small key from his pocket, he fiddled with the secured drawer, then eased it open. As he’d guessed, the estate ledgers were inside, and he lugged them out, and arranged them in a tidy pile. Eagerly, he located the book containing the most current entries, and he scanned the rows of numbers.

T
HE
instant the library door shut behind them, John reached for Emma and braced her against it. He wasn’t about to let her bat her pretty lashes and persuade him to traipse off on another expedition to interview his tenants. Though he couldn’t figure out how it happened, he couldn’t refuse her requests, and when she compelled him to accompany her, he couldn’t say no.

Well, he’d had enough. They weren’t going anywhere, except across the room to lie down on the couch.

He gripped her shapely thighs and lifted her, bunching up her skirts and widening her thighs so that he could lean in to steady himself at her center, so that she could wrap her legs around his waist.

She’d worn her straw bonnet, and he dipped under the brim, zealously taking her lips in a torrid kiss as he fumbled with the bow so he could untie it and yank it off. The blasted hat regularly irritated him, shielding her so that he only caught occasional glimpses of her smile whenever she peeked up at him, and he nearly ripped it to pieces in his haste to have it gone.

Her hair was down, the curly locks secured with a single ribbon, as if she’d resigned herself to the fact that the assignation would end with his running his fingers through it, and she hadn’t wanted to place herself in the position of having to pin it up when she was in a rush. The ribbon was easily removed, and he tossed it away so that her fabulous tresses cascaded over her shoulders.

As he sifted through the soft strands, he cherished the gesture she’d made, recognizing it as a compromise, an admission that what sparked between them couldn’t be ignored or avoided. It was too potent, too overwhelming, and trying to fight it was futile.

He knew because he’d rigorously endeavored to combat the burgeoning temptation, but when he wasn’t with her, he couldn’t concentrate on anything but how slowly the clock was ticking, on how soon the moment would arrive so that he could be with her.

On those afternoons when she didn’t show up by the hour of one, he’d be frantic with worry, and as she’d finally come marching across his rear yard, he’d feel exuberant. Usually, he didn’t even mind as she dragged him off to convene with his crofters. He’d enthusiastically escort her, entranced and stupidly anxious to bask in her company in any fashion she’d allow.

The innocuous visits around the estate were wretched. She was affable and courteous, doing naught to suggest that she might be amenable to seduction, or that she was thinking about any subject beyond their task, while he could focus upon nothing but how rapidly he could get her alone, and what he intended to do with her once he could locate a sequestered spot in the forest.

In front of others, he donned the role of aloof aristocrat, pretending that he and Emma had no connection other than for business purposes. She’d tease him unmercifully, gazing at him with a particular amount of naïveté and artifice, or brashly slipping her hand into his arm as they strolled side by side.

The subtle touching made him crazy, and he hadn’t decided if she was doing it deliberately, or if she was merely prone to excessive corporeal contact, but whatever her motives, she’d impelled him past his limits.

After their latest appointment at a crofter’s shack
had concluded—with his once again revoking his eviction decision, and Emma sweetly kissing him on the cheek and telling him she hadn’t had any doubt that he would—he’d been so aroused that he’d pondered whether it was possible for a man to burst the seams on his trousers. He’d been that hard and ready. But as they’d sauntered into the woods, she’d declared she had important chores to complete, and she couldn’t dally with him as he’d hoped.

With a brief exchange of a few dangerous kisses, she’d vanished like smoke, racing off to the responsibilities that hampered her from tending to his rising ardor.

He was irked that she declined to do his bidding, that she felt her personal concerns equaled or superseded his own. In his world, he asked people to jump, and they said, how high? They never argued or maintained that they were too busy.

At the same juncture, he was amazed that she was strong enough to rebuff his edicts. With the exception of Ian, no one disagreed with him. He was a dictator in a universe where others grasped that their province was to make him happy, to blithely and cheerfully carry out his commands.

She didn’t comprehend this principle, or if she did, she chose not to abide by it. When he tried to point out his eminence, she’d laugh and inform him he couldn’t always get his way—when he didn’t see why not—and that he was horridly spoiled. Which was true, but it didn’t mean she had to so vigorously flaunt her independence.

For some bizarre reason that he was still striving to unravel, he wanted her to rely on him, to be beholden, to be inextricably bound, but the more he attempted to constrain her, the more distance she imposed. Instead of
their advancing on to full sex—as any sane chap would have anticipated after their indecent romp in the forest—their encounters grew more and more chaste, until he was convinced he’d explode if he didn’t alter the direction in which they were traveling.

Each day, they would assemble in his library, but before he had a chance to so much as hug her, she would maneuver him outside so that she could introduce him to another of her poverty-stricken neighbors. While he had to admit that he was coming to enjoy their lengthy walks, that he treasured the fresh air and the balmy summer temperatures, that he was enthralled to view the estate and the inhabitants’ difficulties through her eyes, he wasn’t about to persist with their celibate friendship.

He was fed up with her evasion and subterfuge. She had a knack for trifling with him, for making him believe that an amorous event would transpire, but she constantly escaped before he could initiate any ardent activity. Reticence was not in his nature, but he’d played her game, and he was weary of it. He wanted what she kept promising with every one of her sly smiles, with every tempting sway of her curvaceous hips.

Deceptively, he’d lulled her into presuming that she could usher him where she wished, but she was about to learn a tidbit that few people knew about him: He could be nudged and prodded when the end result didn’t signify. Others deemed him to be a slacker or apathetic as to what occurred around him, when in truth, he could be relentless if the outcome was meaningful. His dilemma was that there weren’t many issues about which he was inclined to expend any energy.

Apparently—though he couldn’t have explained why—Emma Fitzgerald had become one of those topics about which he cared deeply, so he would be ruthless in getting what he wanted from her. His quiet acquiescence
was over, and their meetings would now progress according to his dictates. Not hers.

He wouldn’t permit her to leave without his getting the opportunity to make love to her. He wouldn’t put off for another second what he should have insisted upon days earlier.

How had she bewitched him so thoroughly? Why had he yielded to the infatuation? Where would it lead?

“Open for me.” His tongue was toying with her lips, demanding entrance, and she obeyed, folding her arms around him and holding him close.

Down below, his cock was rock-solid, his balls clenched and aching and, unable to stand the suspense, he speculated as to how quickly he could be inside her, how marvelous it would feel, how tight she would be, and if—once he’d had her a time or two—some of his infernal longing might abate.

He was so bloody intrigued as to what it would be like to copulate with her. Why was he so desperate to find out how it would be?

He massaged her breasts, began to unbutton her dress but, as he’d suspected she might, she tried to stop him.

“Wakefield, no.” She pulled away, tipping her head so that he kissed across her cheek, down her neck. “One of my neighbors is expecting us.”

“We’re not going out today.”

Hefting her up, he had her off balance, and she yelped and slapped at his shoulders.

“Put me down, you beast.”

“No.”

She weighed no more than a feather, so it was a simple feat to cart her to the couch, to recline on his back, to bring her with him. Her knees were situated on either side of his lap, her skirt rucked up, her loins
perched above his own. His phallus was pulsating, awaiting her to lower herself so that her privates impacted with his.

From prior experience, he knew she didn’t wear drawers, so her pussy would be bare, would be hot and slippery against the placard of his pants, and he couldn’t tolerate the space separating them. Yet she didn’t make any move to exacerbate their conjunction, so he clasped her flanks and tilted her so that she was slanting forward and powerless to prevent the inevitable.

The shock of feeling her crotch to his ignited an eruption of stimulation that blasted through what little was left of his chivalrous tendencies. He yearned to rip away her clothes, to pin her down and take her in a rough, unbridled mating. She goaded his manly senses to outrageous, hazardous heights, that had him recklessly eager to have her, and damn the consequences.

The palm of her hand was propped on the arm of the sofa, and she glared at him with an exasperated look that should have annoyed him, but didn’t. Her face was so expressive, and he never tired of studying the emotion that swept across it. He was amused by her aggravation, oddly tickled that she was about to enumerate all the ways he was a bounder and a scapegrace.

Throughout his life, he’d been told how despicable he was in his habits, how he couldn’t fill his brother’s shoes. The message had grown so tedious that he’d quit listening.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t rankled by her complaints. She had an ability to communicate her castigations in a manner that made him want to heed her, that made him want—for a change—to better himself so that she would be gladdened by his rectified conduct. He reveled in pleasing her, in seeing her smile and knowing that she
was elated because of something he’d accomplished just for her.

Her gratitude and delight over the most trivial deeds were so genuine that he conjectured that few people had ever done her a good turn. She was lauded for helping others, but it didn’t appear that many of her generously lavished favors were returned.

He was thrilled that he had the resources to coddle her as she deserved, and he longed to aid her more extensively. She inspired him to all sorts of out-of-character benevolence.

“What are you doing?” she scolded as he manipulated her nipples.

“I want to make love to you.”

“But I have plans for us, and I’ve—”

He settled a finger to her lips, silencing her.

“No.”

She scrutinized him, and he could read every agonized thought skittering through her devious, charming head as she tried to deduce how she could coerce him outside so that physical interaction would be impossible. Previously, her ploy had succeeded, but she’d exhausted his patience. His level of titillation had exceeded his willingness to indolently tag along to wherever she went.

“I don’t want to do this,” she ultimately contended.

“I don’t care.”

She bristled with irritation. “You’re a pompous bully, Wakefield. I don’t know why I keep spending time with you.”